


Many Days

by aPaperCupCut



Series: A Series of Adjustments [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Accents, Also i suck at research. Thus the anachronisms even though i know when each character comes from., Anachronisms galore, Compilation of loosely connected ficlets, Dehumanization, Delusions of the dangerous variety. Wx78 is not nice., Destroyer is not destroyer despite what wx claims, Everyone's a loser, Fluff with plot? Can fluff have plot?, Gen, Grandma Wickerbottom, Lots of falling. Hard. I don't know how they havent broken tbeir chins yet, Lots of rain., Nobody listens to maxwell. Whether that's good or bad is yet to be seen, Physical abuse. Wx is not nice., Poor Wes, Summer rain is spring rain. You kinda forget there even is spring when living in the desert, Tame island. That doesn't mean it isnt dangerous, Weak hounds, Wendys a little shit. She takes after her uncle i guess, Wilsons a lonely loser, Woodie is a cutie patootie. A very unlucky cutie patootie, artistic liberties taken with canon, ill add more tags as I go, pretty much everyone, time displacement, time distortion, weird timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9406817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: Meeting other people is not generally expected when one is kidnapped, dragged to hell island, and forced to remember all the times one has died on said island.- A series of loosely connected stories about hopeless people deciding, hey, if they're stuck here they might as well enjoy it.Note, they might not understand what 'enjoyment' is.*edit: less of them enjoying themselves and more running into people and hanging out.*edit of the edit: I actually have a plot for this. Not a very complex one, but enough that i kinda want to go back and rewrite some of this.





	1. He might be a little desperate, a little lonely

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first fanfic I've written over 1000 words, and the first I've ever posted. So be gentle, please?
> 
> This first chapter is Wilson!

He lost track of time.

 

While he couldn't regret it, he certainly missed the days he could identify. He missed celebrations, whether they be for his birthday or holidays.

 

Of course, with resources so low, even if he had known what day it was, he would not - could not - celebrate.

 

It was a celebration just to survive another day, to avoid starting all over.

 

In the beginning, when he kept count of the days, months, and years, he died often.

 

For lack of knowledge. For his denial.

 

For his inability to reconcile his reality.

 

Now, knowing what he knew and accepting what he did not, he lived longer.

 

In fact, this was the longest he'd been alive. Four years, give or take, with many near deaths in between.

 

A year ago, he had found a door - a very distinctive door, one he was sure Maxwell wished him to enter.

 

He refused, of course. After three years, one got used to one's situation, and even gave quite a lot of thought to it.

 

Going home, while feasible, was extremely unlikely. And who was to say he'd even reach it? He could be transported far from his home, with no money and no identification, and even wilder, he might be put far into the future or far into the past.

 

Who was to say it was better there than here? Afterall, he was left alone, kept occupied, and while in the beginning he was furious over his kidnapping, after so much time he… just didn't care to go back.

 

There were things he missed, but just like time, what use were they to him here?

 

Anyway, he refused to play Maxwell's game. The pieces he found went to his science or to the fire, whichever was more pressing. The door he covered with spider silk and vines.

 

He rubbed his hands, attempting to drag himself to the present day. (It was getting harder to do that. Should he be worried?)

 

Just recently, he'd found tracks not far from his camp, close to the door. Worn, but still fresh.

 

Fresh, and easily identified.

 

Human tracks. Fresh human tracks.

 

Human feet, ones fitted in shoes and small.

 

There was another human here, somewhere nearby.

 

At the time, he did nothing more than note their existence before moving onto more pressing matters - like trying to find more pinecones.

 

He huffed. How stupid was he? Ignoring the existence of another in favour of more “pressing concerns”?! Hells, he could not even recall what he wanted the damned pinecones for.

 

What should he do? If he sought this other out, what would occur? He had no interest in leaving, but perhaps he'd assist this person if they wished for it.

 

A flicker, a faint echo of his old fury. Maxwell had dragged one person here - couldn't he be satisfied? Of course not.

 

Well, who could blame him? Wilson could not. He hadn't played the game, had fought to learn and adapt, and probably had never been even slightly amusing.

 

Distracted again. He clenched his hands, rubbed his stubble. (Perhaps some concern was in order. His mind had never been so absent before)

 

He fed some twigs to the fire.

 

Now, what was he going to do? The summer rains were due soon, and the full moon was just around the corner. He supposed he could continue to ignore the other, but it rankled him.

 

Did they even know about the full moon? About the rains? About the winter season?

 

About the shadows?

 

A chill went through him. He at least could pass on his knowledge. He could at least do that.

 

He did not do that.

 

Days passed, and Wilson did not go far beyond the ring of trees surrounding his home.

 

He blamed it on his own forgetfulness. Everyone knew how such things went - one moment you're gathering wood for the fire, the next you're rushing home as the sun sets.

 

He blamed it on his work. He needed to keep his supplies well stocked, and needed to keep his science going.

 

These, of course, were just excuses. He avoided the place he had found the tracks, despite having multiple traps to collect in that region.

 

He knew this, but did not fight to change it.

 

When he wasn't distracted, when he focused on the issue, he realized he was afraid.

 

He hadn't seen another person (or, at least, a person that counted) for… he didn't even know. Far more than just four years.

 

But despite the aching in his gut, despite his guilt, he just couldn't push himself to find them.

 

He just couldn't.

 

So he continued his bustling work, creating several small overhangs against a nearby cliff face he had scouted out, moving his supplies there slowly in preparation for the coming rain.

 

By the time the first drops of rain had touched the roof, he'd quite forgotten about the tracks.

 

Now, sitting comfortably, dry and warm, waiting for his food to finish cooking, he let his thoughts drift again.

 

He'd found another one of Maxwell's pieces - in fact, it was a near copy of the first one he'd found.

 

At that time, he had thrown it into the fire - mind unsettled with lost sleep and raw mushrooms (impatience, a fault that was nearly nonexistent now), he'd sought to rid himself of it and to warm his cold fingers.

 

Now, he carefully analyzed it.

 

Square, wooden, with a useless rotating lever on the side.

 

Perhaps, if he could open it up…

 

He grasped his faithful knife (one he had never lost. It always awoke alongside him) just as he heard it.

 

Feet slapping mud. Ragged breathing, slight wheezing.

 

Nearby.

 

More than just nearby - just outside his shelter.

 

It was dark. Not yet night, but the night was edging closer, just as the person was now.

 

No, not just one person.

 

A child's face was outlined by his firelight.

  
The other, a tall, haggard woman, stepped into his shelter, gently leading the child in as well.


	2. It's not that different than before. She might like it better, in fact

Willow rose from the earth like sparks from disturbed embers.

 

Hissing, she rubbed her hands against her skirt, unintentionally smearing coarse mud into her cuts.

 

She surveyed the dense trees around her. Nothing but mud and evergreens, darkness everywhich way, almost dark enough as to blind her.

 

Sighing, she set off.

 

As she walked, she tried to recall how she'd gotten to such a place.

 

The last thing she remembered was… a hand. Reaching out to her - perhaps offering something? But beyond that, she couldn't quite recall with certainty.

 

The trees grew sparse as she traveled. Before too long, she had reached a meadow.

 

She tried to estimate how long she had been walking, but gave up quickly.

 

Now she sat down, feet pulsing with an infuriating ache, looking at the things she had picked up along her path.

 

While she couldn't say for sure, she had an ominous feeling that she was stranded. Perhaps when she had her wits about her she’d panic, but she was too tired right now.

 

Willow couldn't tell which berries were poisonous and which were not, and so had only picked the carrots (and such a strange thing to come across out here).

 

She looked to the horizon, suddenly anxious.

 

The sun was setting.

 

Her fingers tightened, crushing the carrot she held. She needed to set a fire; she remembered hearing that it was dangerous alone in the woods in the dark without a light.

 

She didn't want to risk doubting that.

 

Willow dropped the carrots she had gathered, including the crushed one, digging through her pockets.

 

She hasn't collected any wood. Not that it would have been much help; she didn't have the first clue on how to build a fire.

 

Cold metal pressed against her frantic fingers as the last light touched the distant horizon. Willow gasped, relieved; everything felt far away, but a tinge of panic was breaking through it.

 

She flicked the lighter on without another thought. The dark receded like a bad dream, and she relaxed.

 

She lit a fire after quickly gathering the fuel, grateful for what little light she had but greatly calmed by the brightness of a roaring fire.

 

It dawned on her, now that she had a moment, that she may be stuck here. Sure, she had given some thought to it, but now she truly considered it.

 

Willow knew, with an instinct that almost frightened her, that there wasn't going to be some miraculous rescue.

 

She didn't have any communication device, she was in a rather deserted area, and who would look for someone like her anyway? Willow was a nobody.

 

She faced this realization head-on. There was no changing it, and it wasn't like this was a step up or down from her previous situation.

 

But how did she even get here? Where was “here”?

 

She had been speaking to someone. A stranger; Willow didn't have many friends, and wasn't one to just strike up a conversation.

 

So he had spoken to her first.

 

What had he offered her? Perhaps he had been one of those charitables; she wasn't one to deny assistance, nor one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

No doubt she had finally met one of those lunatics everyone told her so much about.

 

He had probably drugged her - it explained why she couldn't recall a thing and woke up disoriented - and abandoned her here.

 

Well, it was over now. She was alone, in an unknown wood, without any survival knowledge.

 

The next day she got a move on, collecting as much as she could carry, determined to survive.

 

* * *

 

Days passed quickly after that. She kept count.

 

And as she counted, she learned. She kept her lighter, learning how to use flint and friction as it slowly ran out of fuel.

 

She traveled, collecting food as she passed, building haphazard rabbit traps and eating meat two weeks after she had arrived.

 

She also lost her mind.

 

Willow had always had a penchant for fire. It was why she lived on the streets - too many people fired her due to her carelessness with the element.

 

Now alone, she didn't fear repercussion.

 

Now, alone, she completely lost her self control.

 

She lit fires when she was bored. When she was nervous. When she was excited.

 

While that helped keep her calm and she never slept in the dark, she knew it wasn't normal.

 

Therefore, Willow decided, she had gone mad.

 

Just as she knew she had gone mad, she knew it would get her in trouble sooner or later.

 

There were creatures in this wood that concerned her, and she had already caught a predator’s attention once before. She had gotten out of that situation only by the skin of her teeth.

 

But now she had finally met her match.

 

Willow, falling to a fit of madness like she was now prone to, had set a patch of trees aflame.

 

And now she had… something chasing her.

 

She was too afraid to look.

 

Willow huffed, growing increasingly short breathed - she was leaving a trail of fire behind her, like the fucking idiot that she was.

 

She was going to fucking die.

 

Fuck.

 

She could feel its breath against her back, and was sure that it liked fire just as much as she now did.

 

She was going to be set on fire, and die in excruciating pain.

 

“FUCK! FUCK YA!” She let herself roar, reckless and uncaring. 

 

She shot a glare behind her, got a good look at the monster, screamed, and shot off again.

 

She stopped setting fires, thankfully; the promise of a fiery death and the view of the monster giving it to her had forced her to tap down on the urge.

 

A hand grabbed her wrist, tugged her into a bush faster than she could yell out.

 

Her mouth was squeezed shut by a small hand.

 

The monster stormed passed; she could feel the heat of it penetrating the brush she hid in.

 

For what felt like a century, Willow was restrained tightly by small, dirty fingers.

 

When she was released, she sucked in a wet breath, shoulders shaking and fingers itching for her lighter.

 

“You haven't been here long, have you? Otherwise I'd have seen some sign of you.” The voice was quiet, soft and childishly sweet.

 

“I… can't say fer sure… but only fer… several weeks…” she was quite winded, and was more than a little surprised.

 

“Well, I know you are here now. What did he promise you?”

 

Willow finally turned to the girl, confirming her suspicions.

 

A child looked back at her. Dirty and roughened, she couldn't be older than thirteen.

 

“How… old are ya? What's yer name?” Willow’s head felt strangely empty, and her words came out in a rush.

 

“Twelve. I am Wendy.” The girl stared at her unblinkingly, unimpressed.

 

“... I'm Willow.” 

 

Finally, Wendy’s words caught up with her.

 

“... A man promised ya somethin’?”

 

“Yes. Maxwell. He thinks it's funny.”

 

“... How long have ya been here?”

 

Wendy gave her a disgusted look.

 

“Ok, ok. What was that thing?”

 

“A dragonfly.”

 

“... Ok. And, really, how long have ya been here?”

 

“I can't give you an exact answer, but I believe it has been about four months.” 

 

Willow looked the girl over. She had thrown off her previous confusion, but it didn't seem realistic that a child had gone through three months of rough living without adult assistance, completely unscathed.

 

Wendy glared. She appeared unharmed, and was very familiar with the sceptical look Willow was sending her.

 

“Don't look at me like that. At least I haven't caught any giant's attention like you have.”

 

Willow had enough self preservation to look slightly abashed, but did not apologize.

 

“Well, since ya obviously know what yer doin’, do ya care if I join yer little club?”

 

Wendy sniffed. “I guess. As long as you follow the rules and explain how you got here.”

 

There really wasn't much to explain - Willow told her what she remembered (leaving out as much as she could of her own situation) on the way to Wendy's camp.

 

In return, Wendy told her what she knew; mainly, that the dark, as Willow had suspected, was dangerous, and that they were no longer on Earth.

 

Willow swallowed it without a flinch. It wasn't difficult to accept - after seeing the “dragonfly,” it was harder to pretend she was somewhere familiar.

 

The two got along surprisingly well. Willow was able to do things Wendy hadn't had the ability to, like traveling farther for supplies, building better traps, and cleaning the rabbits the traps caught.

 

Wendy was able to warn Willow of dangers she had not even considered, like the dangers of swamps, what hounds were, and what killer bees were.

 

All in all, things were going well for the two.

 

And then the summer rains came.

 

Wendy had arrived at the tail end of winter, and Willow had arrived in the midst of spring; it was no surprise that they were completely unprepared for the more… intense seasons.

 

Rain fell, lightning struck, and their entire camp was up in flames.

 

Frogs fell, eating all of their supplies.

 

Hounds chased them, spiders nearly killed them.

 

Basically, Willow thought, it was a disaster.

 

Wendy shuddered next to her, soaked to the bone. Rain poured like lava from a volcano, thick and sluggish, hot and muggy.

 

While Willow was well aware the girl had not told her everything (The man - Maxwell was his name, wasn't it? - had not been mentioned after that first conversation), she couldn't blame her. Willow had not told her who she was before, and Wendy was entitled just as much.

 

But this? Hiding this was beyond just avoiding uncomfortable topics.

 

Apparently, Wendy had kept track of the other people she had come across. She had only found two other people, and one had disappeared shortly after she had seen him.

 

The other had stayed.

 

Willow grit her teeth.

 

He, according to the slight girl, looked a little stir crazy, and seemed to want privacy. He looked like he didn't want to see anyone.

 

Now, on the last of the few scraps they had been able to gather, Wendy had caved and told her.

 

The man always had food, she had claimed. Perhaps he would help them.

 

Willow called shit on that. Even if there was another person in this godforsaken place, she doubted he'd be willing to give any provisions to a couple of women.

 

Despite her beliefs that such an action would lead to anything but food and safety, Willow let the girl drag her to the man's campsite. If the man moved even a toe out of line, Willow didn't doubt her ability to give back what she got tenfold.

 

But all they found at his supposed campsite was an abandoned fire pit and lukewarm leftovers.

 

Infuriated, Willow tried to set the ring of surrounding trees on fire. The rain put a stop to that quickly.

 

In her resulting despair, she almost didn't notice Wendy slowly wandering away.

 

She grabbed her wrist viciously, pulling the girl to a stop.

 

“Where the hell d’ya think yer goin’?

 

Wendy glared back. She tugged her hand away, and Willow let go.

 

“Where else? I'm following the man's tracks. I believe he's been here for a great deal of time; it makes sense that he has a shelter for the monsoon season.”

 

Willow let out a breath through her clenched jaw, dragging a hand through tangled hair.

 

She glanced back to the tree cover longingly, then back to the small child she felt compelled to help.

 

Wendy motioned to the faint footprints, already fading from the mud.

 

“... Ok. But not a word from ya; I'll speak to this guy.”

 

Wendy nodded, expression serious.

 

So the pair trudged on. It was a long walk, as Wendy lost the trail multiple times.

 

Despite this, it wasn't even evening when they caught the smell of cooking food. Before long, they caught sight of the warm light of a fire - and more importantly, a figure silhouetted starkly against the light.

 

Invigorated, Willow rushed forward.

 

It was only when she saw the figure holding a knife that she slowed.

 

She stopped, suddenly struck by fear.

 

Was it really worth it, to approach a stranger, in an already life threatening situation?

 

The setting sun answered her question for her.

 

The wood they had with them was soaked. They didn't have anything to light.

 

It was either die by whatever haunted the shadows (which Wendy spoke of with a kind of fearful awe) or chance being killed by a hermit.

  
She would take her chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wendy's view next.


	3. Smug chit. She has her own secrets

There was no stopping the utter bewilderment on the man's face.

 

Wendy tried not to breathe. To do so would only break the tenuous silence, held like a white flag between them.

 

Willow, of course, didn't say a thing. She just sat down, close to the fire, and watched the man gape like a suffocating fish.

 

Wendy breathed. No use trying not to when it would not even be noticed.

 

Wendy almost regretted allowing Willow to stay.

 

Her time here had been quiet, peaceful. Sure, there was plenty she missed and there was a lot she couldn't physically do without an adult. But it had been quiet.

 

Willow was loud. Willow was excitement, was boisterous company. She was fire.

 

Wendy couldn't help but be entertained. So she let her stay. She didn't completely regret it.

 

The man quieted, now, but seemed at a complete loss.

 

Wendy didn't know how long he had been here. But he had taught her a lot, regardless of whether he knew it or not.

 

Wendy had watched him, watched him build traps and kill rabbits and avoid hounds.

 

She had left as soon as she knew what she needed to know. There was no point in sticking around.

 

Now she watched him finally interact with another human being. She couldn't help but pity him.

 

Willow twitched. Ah, so now there would be discussion. Uncomfortable discussion. Entertaining discussion.

 

“We'll leave as soon as the rain stops. If we could have shelter and food, we’ll be grateful and out o’ yer hair.”

 

The man sputtered, eyes huge. He seemed incapable of speaking.

 

Willow stared at him, almost challenging him, before snatching at the pile of food next to the fire pit. She handed some to Wendy.

 

The man shut his mouth with a snap.

 

Wendy succeeded at hiding her amusement.

 

They sat in silence, eating the… what was this? Wendy bit into it thoughtfully, before deciding to call it a meatball. It was round enough, and seemed to be made of meat.

 

“So. How long have ya been here, dirt-man?”

 

It seemed Willow was uncomfortable with that silence.

 

This time, however, the man seemed a little more prepared to answer.

 

“Hullow, dear madam, my name is Wilson P. Higgsbury, and I am a Scientist.” 

 

Well, Wendy had thought he seemed a bit prepared. It appeared not to be so.

 

There was a shocked silence.

 

His eyes bulged, seeming to realize that he had made a mistake somewhere but not quite sure where.

 

Wendy nearly giggled. He sounded like he had read off of a note card.

 

Willow’s reaction was a lot less amused and a lot more concerned.

 

The man - Wilson P. Higgsbury, a Scientist, apparently - gave a hacking cough.

 

He tried again.

 

“I give you my dearest apologies; I have not spoken to another human being for…” Now his eyes glazed over.

 

Wendy already knew where this was going. She had watched him enough to know that he’d either start babbling nonsense or would remain quiet and still for a good amount of time, lost in thought.

 

Willow, however, was having none of it.

 

She reached over and shook him, hard.

 

Wendy tracked the back and forth of the man's dirt covered face, his hair so greasy and stiff that it followed his scalp. He snapped out it after a few especially hard shakes.

 

He shoved Willow away, a furious glare reddening his face.

 

“Stop that! What on Earth is wrong with you?”

 

Willow sneered. Wendy tried and failed to hide her snort.

 

“Agh! It appears I am surrounded by a couple of morons, who think the best way to attain a gentleman's attention is to violently shake him!” He scoffed at them, expression so red and twisted up that he looked almost like a candy cane. A very dirty and greasy candy cane.

 

“Why don't ya answer my questions then? Yer a ‘gentleman,’ yes?”

 

He looked affronted.

 

“Yes, I am! And to answer your previous questions, I think my opinion on food is null due to your greedy little hands, and I don't think telling you how long I've been here is any of your business!”

 

Willow glared.

 

There was a very amusing staring match between the two for several long minutes, which Wendy absolutely drank up.

 

Finally, a tired, embarrassed look slinked onto Wilson's face.

 

“I… I am sorry. I spoke rudely. I just do not like being shaken.”

 

Willow carefully gazed at him, her expression thoughtful. Her eyes flickered.

 

“... ‘m Willow. She's Wendy. So, how long ya been ‘ere?”

 

Willow’s accent thickened considerably. Wendy believed she was feeling the effects of the long day.

 

“I don't know how long it has been. How long have you stayed here?”

 

But Willow looked to Wendy. It appeared she was tired enough to give the reins to a twelve year old girl. How irresponsible.

 

“She has been here for about a month. I have been here for about five. Now, it appears my companion would like to sleep.”

 

In the middle of her answer, Willow had laid down.

 

Wilson didn't flinch.

 

“Several months? How remarkable. How did you manage on your own for so long?”

 

Curious, she decided to answer vaguely, injecting something sinister into her tone.

 

“I watched you.”

 

Again, he did not flinch.

 

“Ahh. I suppose that is why you knew I was here.”

 

Now that Willow was asleep, the quiet arrived and stayed, making itself comfortable.

 

“... Would you like a sleeping bag?”

 

She glanced pointedly at Willow. 

 

“… She fell asleep too quickly for me to offer.”

 

Sighing, she shrugged and took the proffered bag.

 

Willow was a nuisance to wake up, and Wendy was too tired by now to continue a wilting conversation with the “dirt-man,” or to deal with Willow.

 

She slept peacefully through the night, dreaming of scattered lost times.

 

When she awoke, both Willow and Wilson were awake and fighting over what to cook for breakfast.

 

The rain continued to rage outside the shelter, letting only bare white light through the cloud cover.

 

“The rain season lasts several more months - I can't just let you walk out with no experience or advice! At least stay for a few weeks, or until you've built a nearby shelter - a dry shelter.”

 

“I said we’d get out o’ yer hair as soon as we could, and ya have givan us more than enough to see through this bout o’ rain.”

 

“But - ”

 

Wendy chimed in, already sure of their future.

 

“We'd love to stay, Mr. Higgsbury.”

 

Wilson fluffed up like a bird. Willow scowled.

 

Willow would stay - or she wouldn't. It was much more likely she would stay due to her controlling tendencies.

 

Wilson was already proving interesting - even if Willow left, he would still be interesting.

 

But if Willow did stay…

 

Well, the fun was just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, this is one of my favourite chapters. I hope you liked it as much as I did. Next is Woodie and Wickerbottom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Woodie's speech isn't too annoying. I've taken severe liberties with canon, and Woodie has severe voice disuse.

Woodie swung his ax.

 

The resulting thwack did not break the stillness.

 

Lucy was quiet. Probably sensing the anticipation curling in the air.

 

Woodie ignored it.

 

He gathered the wood, pushing as many logs as he could into his knapsack. 

 

There was no faraway echo of howling. No whisper of a shake across the packed earth. No sharp hissing creeping out from the edges of the deep wood.

 

Woodie shrugged the load over his shoulder, sliding Lucy into her well worn belt brace.

 

He hadn't minded the passing time - not now, and not back then either.

 

He had wandered.

 

From forest to savannah to rocky quarries.

 

After all his exploring, he settled in familiarity, comforted by the notion of normality.

 

He kept to the outer woods - it was too dark in the deep parts, and the other creatures left him alone if he was quiet enough.

 

There were quarrels in the beginning, of course.

 

There had been his first run in with the wolves - and hadn't that been a ride! - and the fights with spiders, giants, bees - he doubted he'd run into everything, but he didn't doubt he’d survived quite a lot.

 

And then there were the little knick knacks he had found.

 

When the wood he resided in withered and the air began to chill, he built his little door and outran the coming freeze.

 

The first time he had no idea what he had been doing.

 

He had found four pieces. He had been starving and damn near his breaking point.

 

With Lucy practically crying with concern, with his pockets empty except for those pieces, he had tripped across that damned platform.

 

Without thought, half desperate and half senseless, he dropped everything he carried - including poor Lucy - onto it, hopped on, and promptly lost any recollection of what happened afterwards.

 

All he knew was that he awoke somewhere bright, somewhere warm.

 

After that, whenever he felt that despicable cold, he collected the pieces and went straight to the platform he always found.

 

Lucy whispered, drawing him gently from his thoughts.

 

She chittered cheerfully, recovering from her own contemplation. Lucy wasn't one for silence, but she didn't expect any responses.

 

He brushed her gleaming blade, smiling briefly before returning to his ponderings. 

 

Ahh…. Lucy was probably the best thing he had found, both here and in his previous life.

 

With her optimistic encouragement and air of company, he didn't find himself lonely.

 

He didn't tire from her words, either.

 

Of course, that brought him to the worst of this life.

 

The Were… thing.

 

He didn't want to call it a Werebeaver. That was a bit too on the nose for his tastes, no matter Lucy’s insistence.

 

Every full moon. Every time he risked a second tree, or a third.

 

It was annoying. A tad bit disquieting - in fact, if he were to exaggerate, it was almost disturbing.

 

He couldn't recall everything that occurred during the black out, but what he could recall was more than enough.

 

Lucy gave a noise of worry, inferencing the road his mind was traveling.

 

She knew him better than he knew himself, he reckoned.

 

She gave a soft reprimand, scolding him for letting his mind wander too far.

 

He was a wanderer, she knew that, but sometimes she disliked his mind wandering too far away from her.

 

Not predisposed to conversation, Woodie just brushed his thumb along her handle.

 

She huffed at his response, but fell silent anyway.

 

Once they were back at camp, Woodie got to work.

 

It was already evening; he would have to eat from the stores rather than risk gathering tonight's dinner.

 

He cut the wood into smaller pieces, stacking them onto the already tall tower of wood he had beside his tent.

 

Lucy cooed.

 

He smiled. She liked wood - a lot more than he did, in fact - and her excitement was always enjoyable to watch.

 

As she babbled over their stock, he started cooking.

 

He planned to shine Lucy’s blade afterward, as a kind of thank-you, and was lost in the motions.

 

So he did not notice the quiet suddenly becoming silence.

 

He only noticed when Lucy started, and then fell silent.

 

Looking up, he surveyed the trees.

 

Not wolves. If that were so, there would have been a warning.

 

Not a giant. It was too early in the season and, again, he would have heard it.

 

Definitely not shadows.

 

As he peered into the woods, his hands busy with his supper, he wondered - no, he worried - that he had misjudged the silence's benign intent.

 

But no. It was certainly taking an edge of danger, but it was not urgent or malicious.

 

He returned to work.

 

While the rest of the evening was tense with the silence breathing down his back, Woodie still found himself enjoying Lucy’s easy company.

 

He went to sleep relaxed.

 

* * *

 

The stiffness in the air didn't dissipate in the morning like he had half expected.

 

But there was work to do, good work, not to mention the full moon was just over the horizon.

 

But despite his best efforts, an apprehensive feeling distracted him. He didn't catch the signs.

 

Lucy’s cry of warning didn't come in time.

 

When he finally dragged himself from that pit of semi-consciousness, he was alone.

 

There was wood shrapnel everywhere, almost like he was at the landing site of a bomb.

 

Disoriented, he clumsily dragged his worn body upward. Getting his feet to hold up under him was a work of concentration he did not have.

 

The sky was dark above his head. Nightfall wasn't too far off, and he could feel the dull ache of fear already settling in his bones.

 

Thankfully, he was somewhere familiar.

 

Woodie made it to camp on time, lighting his fire just before the sunset winked out like a candle dying under hot breath.

 

It was only then, still muddled and shaky, that he realized that Lucy had not spoken once during the walk back to camp.

 

He spent that night barely thinking, a forgotten fright gripping him tightly.

 

He had found Lucy here, in this world.

 

After so much time spent here, he couldn't even imagine returning without her.

 

The next morning, he set out immediately, intent on retracing his steps to find her.

 

The path wasn't difficult to follow. What concerned him was that there was so much to cover.

 

He had to set up camp that night. And the next.

 

He tried not to think about how lost he was becoming - or the shadows coming closer and closer each night.

 

He kept tedious track of the days and tried not to let that fact alone rattle him further than he already was.

 

On what was the fourth day of what was quickly becoming the worst week of his life, he ran out of food.

 

Despite the itch to continue searching, Woodie knew he had to stop.

 

He was so lost.

 

Searching for food was a lot more difficult without Lucy. While he had constructed a cheap imitation of her, he was adverse to using it. It felt like dipping his hands in oil when he did.

 

He got enough supplies to last, but he was too slow.

 

He couldn't resume the search.

 

And so Woodie stumbled about, collecting food when he found it and making campfires as he went.

 

He didn't think he was even following the correct path anymore.

 

Then, one evening, he broke through heavy brush, not catching himself in time.

 

He fell, hard, and couldn't find the strength to get back up.

 

There was a rustle. He buried his head in his arms.

 

A finger prodded his hair.

 

“Well.”

 

A pause. Woodie stiffened, but he was too overwhelmed, both by heavy grief and by shock, to respond.

 

“You don't look like you've had a good meal in a year.”

 

She - an elderly woman, he guessed - gave a short ‘hmph’ sound.

 

“Do you have enough strength to accompany me?”

 

He didn't answer - not so much out of shock or denial now, but more because he didn't know how to respond.

 

“I don't suppose you do. You'll need to put in some effort, I'm afraid, but I'll do my best. It's just so nice to see another face - although it's more like your hair - in this place.”

 

A worn hand wrapped delicately around his shoulders, tugging him upright in one motion.

 

He brushed her hands away, holding himself up easily.

 

He stared at her.

 

She stared back.

 

She was old, face lined with age, hair brittle and peppered with white.

 

Without another word, he rose to his feet fully.

 

She looked at him with something close to wonder - perhaps excitement - flickering in her eyes.

 

Something told him that she had half expected him to be another denizen of the island.

 

He didn't blame her.

 

* * *

 

She led him to a simple encampment close by.

 

The evening ended quickly and in silence. She fed him and bid him goodnight before settling into her tent. She did not offer him a sleeping bag.

 

The next morning was better.

 

She appeared surprised he was still there. He supposed she had thought he'd run off with her supplies.

 

“My name’s Wickerbottom. I apologize for my unwelcoming behavior. I was, after all, the one who dragged you here.”

 

Woodie stared. There was something cold, something numb, crawling up his arms.

 

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

 

“Can you speak?”

 

He looked down.

 

“Are you alright? I don't doubt the stress this place exerts, but you appear to be in decent health now, if a bit roughed up.” A touch of concern appeared baldly in her tone.

 

He looked back up, and, seeing the genuine concern she had, tried to speak past his thick tongue.

 

“... los’ someth’n.” He was a tad embarrassed; he didn't speak often, and Lucy never demanded verbal response.

 

“Oh? Something you leaned upon, perhaps?”

 

Apparently picking up on his discomfort, she sat beside him.

 

“How long have you been here? It's been… about a month, perhaps a little less for me. Arrived a little after winter, and haven't seen the snow yet.”

 

She paused in her rambling, turning to him for a response.

 

He felt obliged to give her one. So he gave a guess.

 

“... m’by three ye’rs.”

 

She looked like she couldn't quite parse together his response, but he wasn't bothered.

 

“... Well, I suppose I don't mind you staying here, at least til you find what you need. Something tells me you're unfamiliar with these parts.”

 

He nodded.

 

They sat in a somewhat peaceful silence for a few moments.

 

Then Wickerbottom suddenly straightened up, her back cracking ominously.

 

“Oh dear goodness! I've completely forgotten to ask - what's your name?”

 

“Woodie.”

 

She grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, surprising him with the strength in her grip.

 

“A pleasure to meet you, lad!”

 

* * *

 

The next few days he shared company with the strange elderly woman.

 

At first it was because he was mildly concerned for the old woman - he didn't know how old she was, but she shared more than a few similarities to his late grandmother, whom had been 75 at her passing.

 

Her back was always cracking, she was blunt, and she made better food than he could ever cook up.

 

But it quickly became clear that she wasn't lieing about how long she had been there.

 

She was limber and tough, and kept a neat and full storage.

 

So he set out again.

 

Woodie didn't stay out like he had tried to do previously, however.

 

Every evening, he made his way back to Wickerbottom’s camp.

 

She carried most of the conversation, and only prompted for a response occasionally.

 

Dinner was good. Sleep was peaceful.

 

He almost thought that, as long as Wickerbottom kept a calm disposition, he could go without…

 

Without Lucy.

 

But he refused to give up just yet. Lucy had been there in the very beginning, and while he couldn't say he needed the ax’s company anymore, he couldn't depend on an elderly woman he knew nothing about.

 

So he continued his search.

 

Spring left and summer drank in the absence deeply.

 

He carried ice everywhere, returning when it melted, settling beside Wickerbottom midday.

 

He showed her how to build an endothermic fire, capable of keeping one cool no matter how hot it got.

 

In return, she rewrote - from memory, no less! - one of his favourite books.

 

Woodie learned that she was 62, going on 63.

 

She had eidetic memory, and rereading had strengthened her recall of books and other such materials.

 

She was a librarian.

 

He was a bit surprised at how much she shared. Woodie never really told her of himself, and although it was more because he had difficulty speaking than because of any evasion, the fact still held that he knew more of her than she did of him.

 

The summer passed. He went even farther in his search.

 

Winter was coming.

 

Fall was a foreboding shadow, hiding the true terror of the freeze soon to come.

 

In his search, he'd managed to find all of the pieces and even the platform.

 

Temptation and an ever increasing panic muddled his thoughts.

 

Wickerbottom most certainly noticed, but was polite enough to not speak of it. At least, not just yet.

 

It was only when a short freeze overnight covered the camp in frost that he finally realized the danger that the 62-going-on-63-librarian-with-eidetic-memory was heading into.

 

He stayed in camp for that day, guilt and fear and need warring inside him.

 

Woodie couldn't leave an old woman defenceless to the murderous Winter.

 

But he couldn't stay.

 

That evening had Wickerbottom sending increasingly concerned looks his way. Cordial as the elder liked to be, she didn't say a word.

 

Just like his grandmother when he avoided her for almost four months.

 

“... Wint’r’s c’m’n.”

 

She turned to him in momentary surprise before stifling it.

 

“Yes. It is.”

 

She shot another glance at him.

 

“Say, you've been here before. How's winter?”

 

His eyes seemed to spasm in his head. She was saying it like they were talking about dinner!

 

“... Bad.”

 

A gloomy silence ensued.

 

“... ye c’n c’me with me. H’ve a way o’t.”

 

She pursed her lips together, expression doubtful.

 

“Now, Woodie dear, it appears you might have a… fear. Of winter.”

 

He kept a cool head. She always called him ‘dear’ when she thought he was being stupid.

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“Wint’r’s bad.”

 

She nodded. Woodie hoped she was taking him seriously.

 

“But Woodie, dear, you know there's no way out. We have to get through the winter. Can you tell me what we need?”

 

He shook his head.

 

She didn't - wouldn't believe him.

 

The next morning, he set out again.

 

* * *

 

The days went quicker than ever after that.

 

He found Lucy.

 

She was half buried in icy sludge and dead silent.

 

She stayed silent for several weeks.

 

He shined her blade every morning and every evening, and set out during the day, collecting what Wickerbottom would need without him.

 

They hadn't talked since the argument - for that was what it was, wasn't it? - although she did notice the red ax he now carried.

 

Lucy, after her quiet episode, only spoke to him at night, too nervous to speak around Wickerbottom.

 

When the day finally came, when the cold was too much and he was finally too afraid, he gripped Lucy tightly in his hands and decided to speak to Wickerbottom frankly.

 

Snow covered the ground in a thin layer.

 

His breath fogged.

 

“I suppose you're leaving now.”

 

He didn't nod.

 

“Are you going to at least give me some advice? It may not seem like it, but your reaction is… scaring me.”

 

Her lips twisted, and her eyes focused on him.

 

“C’me with me. J’st f’r a bit.”

 

“I don't believe you. But if it'll get you to help me, I'll follow.”

 

And so they set off.

 

She would believe him when she saw it, he knew.

  
Hopefully she would be reasonable enough to trust him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is WX-78 and Wes. A word of caution: WX is not nice.


	5. WX-78 is not nice. To be truthful, he isn't actually a robot either

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning. WX-78 is not nice. I can't say I'm being very nice to him, but my headcannon of him is such that this is just how he is. Basically, physical abuse. If you are not comfortable with that, skip this chapter - it's only really gonna show up with WX-78.

Well, that was new.

 

WX-78 peered at the strange courtyard from behind a berry bush, quietly collecting the sweet fruits as he analyzed the situation.

 

Surrounding the marble platform were the strangest creatures he'd seen yet - and that was definitely an accomplishment.

 

WX-78 had been here for quite a while, after all; he knew when something new had entered this place.

 

The towers - white, shining; just as marble as the courtyard - were familiar, but he was sure he had never seen them before.

 

Well. No time like the present.

 

Without any lingering hesitation, he jumped to his feet, his clunking metal joints making quite the racket.

 

The towers turned to him, immediately moving forward.

 

He set off.

 

Leading them to their deaths was easy - WX-78 would reward himself if he could, but alas, he did not have cake.

 

Perhaps he'd make some later.

 

Now, however, he was inspecting the thing the towers had been guarding. For what else would they be doing, if not guarding something?

 

It was…. Something.

 

Actually, WX-78 had no identification for it.

 

It was rather pathetic looking, its body apparently badly crippled, curled as it was.

 

It feebly reached out, but hit something before it could touch him.

 

WX-78 was a little unsure.

 

Unsurety was not something he enjoyed.

 

He knocked on the box - for what else could be holding the thing? - and the thing flinched.

 

He kicked at it.

 

No response, now.

 

Suddenly, without warning, the strange thing just… went limp, like an old, deflated rag doll.

 

WX-78 nudged it with his foot, now unimpeded by the box. He briefly wondered where it had gone.

 

It twitched, then fell still.

 

Well, it didn't attack him.

 

And killing it seemed a little premature.

 

Perhaps it’d give him something? Like the little sparrows that gave him eggs?

 

Well, it was getting dark, and WX-78 didn't feel like dragging the thing to camp.

 

Lighting the irritation seemed to revive the thing a bit, as it scuttled closer to the light.

 

Personally, he found the necessity of the flame distasteful; such obnoxious light made his eyes ache. Why should this pathetic thing take such obvious enjoyment from such an irritation, especially since it was causing him such confusion?

 

WX-78 firmly pushed it away from its comfort. 

 

Its hands scrambled at the dirt, but it seemed to realize that WX-78 wasn't pushing it into the darkness. That would be a waste, yes.

 

WX-78 cracked open the nuts he'd carried with him from camp, preferring raw to cooked. They got mushy when they were cooked.

 

He ignored the thing.

 

It was staring at him, with watery, almost sickly eyes.

 

Its bony shoulders made cracking sounds not dissimilar to WX-78’s dinner’s shells.

 

Should he feed it? It wasn't making a sound, and he fed the little birds to get eggs. What would he get if he fed it?

 

He decided to continue ignoring it. 

 

It did not stop staring at him, although its bones were getting a little too loud for his tastes.

 

WX-78 continued reveling in the feeling, not exactly watching the irritation.

 

Then the thing snatched some twigs and fed the flame.

 

At first, WX-78’s reaction was red hot anger; the shitty irritation fricking hurt, and making it brighter hurt like chopping a finger off - and WX-78 should know, he'd done it before.

 

Then it pointed, shaking, at the curls of smoke fleeing their fire.

 

And WX-78 was confused. Again.

 

He rather liked this place; loved the strange sameness and consistency of it.

 

He didn't like searching for this place after he was forced to leave - sometimes it wasn't there, no matter where he looked.

 

So he had to keep from leaving - which, normally, wasn't difficult.

 

But he had difficulty keeping the irritation fed - it burned, and he disliked feeling pain in a happy place.

 

As the pain rattled behind his eyeballs and the heat seared against his exoskeleton, WX-78 couldn't decide on what to do.

 

The thing had saved him a lot of time, at the detriment of WX-78’s comfort.

 

His hand raised, then smacked soundly against its head.

 

It jerked away, but did not squeak. It motioned to the irritation again. As if to remind him what it’d done for him.

 

Well. This could be very, very good for him, but it would require some amount of pain.

 

If he kept it, and fed it, it would prove valuable for something to hit - as shown with its unvoiced protest to his smack. It would also keep him here.

 

WX-78 would no longer have to keep an eye on certain limitations - all he would have to do would be the heavy lifting. Like chopping wood and killing things. Which he liked.

 

It would eat little. He could tell.

 

It would keep the irritation fed, and would take his subsequent pain.

 

It might even recover enough from the box as to supply an extra set of legs.

 

Perfect.

 

* * *

 

It began the next morning by waking him with strange hiccuping sounds, and flailed when he ground his knuckles into its skull in response.

 

Throwing it away from him, wondering if he had made a mistake - but no.

 

It appeared… confused?

 

Well, good riddance. At least he wouldn't have to be that now that it was conflicted.

 

It rubbed its paws into its face, its eyes too wide.

 

He ignored it. If it was sick, it would let him know, or it would die.

 

Instead, he busied himself with breakfast.

 

He liked berries. The sweet, soft things were good raw, better cooked, and best served with cake.

 

He would make that cake someday, he swore it.

 

It flinched when he shoved the warmed berries into its knuckles, still gripping its face.

 

Still, it nodded and ate.

 

That day was just as strangely contentful as that morning, filled as it was with the thing misstepping and paining WX-78, and WX-78 adjusting to its strange company.

 

It kept up. That was good; even better was its toughness, and its habit of redirecting him.

 

He was charmed.

 

When he was distracted, it quietly fixed and watched. When he was in pain, it let him hit it. When he wanted it to do something, it did it.

 

All in all, he was very charmed.

 

He named it, even. It didn't know, of course.

 

He named it ‘Destroyer’. It was the best name he had ever come up with, and it fit the thing perfectly.

 

After all, it had fought off several pups while WX-78 had gone off to find the next Door, and had killed quite the number of bugs when WX-78 ran into them by accident.

 

Destroyer followed him practically everywhere. When WX-78 finally found the next Door, it followed him - which would have happened even if Destroyer didn't like him, even if Destroyer had resisted.

 

It really was a strange little thing.

  
Perhaps it was scared, and saw him as the apex predator, willing to protect it? If so, he was only amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's done. Next is Woodie, Wickerbottom, and Wilson all hitting a bit of trouble.


	6. A smack of trouble. Wilson is one unlucky boy. Actually, maybe not

It came suddenly and harshly. It was also completely expected.

 

The summer rains were nothing to be afraid of, after all; they were several months of rain, with sprinkled spots of clear skies.

 

They had prepared; Wickerbottom had made several nice rain jackets and ponchos. Woodie had made quite a lot of tarps.

 

The first rain came down hard. It thundered, it yelled, it pounded.

 

She had awoken and had thought that the roof of her little lean-to would come down on her.

 

Through the sounds of the rain, she could hear Woodie swearing up a storm; no doubt his leaky hovel was finally biting him in the arse.

 

She'd told the lad, hadn't she? The poor dear must've had something clogged in his ears or some such to have not heard her.

 

That day was spent gathering dry materials - both in storage and anything outside of it.

 

It wasn't exactly pleasant.

 

Her joints squealed with every movement, and her skin stuck unpleasantly to everything in existence.

 

Woodie was doing little better, but he took her complaints like a good lad.

 

They decided to wait for a clear spot to rebuild and take stock of their supplies.

 

But a clear spot didn't come.

 

It just continued raining.

 

They were trapped.

 

After three days, Wickerbottom could barely move; her limbs had locked up, and everything was just too painful.

 

Woodie tried to pick up the slack; killing any pests that came close and cooking for the two of them.

 

Then his coat fell to tatters, and the floodwater rose to his knees.

 

The lean-to was permanently wet and Wickerbottom couldn't imagine moving, for fear of pain.

 

Barely a week into the monsoon season, and they were already almost completely out of food, were overexposed, and worst of all -

 

They were out of dry firewood.

 

Wickerbottom managed to dig up some strange oil she had found only days before, and lit it despite her reservations.

 

The lean-to went up in flames.

 

Such a fire meant they were safe for a night or two, and that dry wood was available, but….

 

But.

 

Wickerbottom couldn't take this much longer.

 

The monsoon period was only barely getting started, and they were already on their last legs.

 

What were they to do? Could they even get out of this?

 

The way things were going, Wickerbottom would be immobilized, rendering Woodie their only support. But he was already getting sick from the wet and cold; she didn't doubt that he'd be much the same as her before long.

 

And they really didn't have enough wood.

 

What they had was perhaps enough for a few more weeks, and that is only if no incident were to occur.

 

With their luck so far, the chances of surviving here were becoming slimmer and slimmer.

 

They would die of sickness if not the dark. They would die of exposure if not starvation.

 

Staying here was death.

 

Wickerbottom only had to convince Woodie of the only choice they had that she could think of.

 

The door.

 

Woodie had always been rather particular about it; when he'd shown her, he had assured her it wasn't “of the devil.”

 

As if the devil bothered making such inconspicuous devices.

 

But even when she had dismissed his notions, he had been very specific about it.

 

‘We don’ use it durin’ spr’ng. It can be fin’cky.’

 

Now was not the time for such concern. Whether it was ‘fin’cky,’ or not was not something to worry about right now.

 

If it did drop them into winter, like Woodie had implied, at least there they wouldn't constantly get wet and they could get a fire started.

 

But before she could say as such to him, Woodie himself decided enough was enough.

 

“We hav’ t’ leave. Can't stay.”

 

He paused in sharpening that strange red ax of his, shooting her a look that told her he had known what she had been thinking of lately.

 

“Yer gettin’ obvious, ma’am.”

 

And then the little lad smirked, smug, like a cat with cream.

 

She harrumphed, annoyed that he could read her so easily now.

 

“Well, since you've turned out to be so intelligent, dear, guess what out our only choice is. Guess what I've been thinking of.”

 

He sobered immediately.

 

“The door.”

 

She nodded.

 

He sighed, gripping the ax’s worn handle.

 

Then he stood (It was a bit amusing, actually, as he wasn't standing all the way up, constricted as he was by the drafty lean-to). Wickerbottom blinked, mildly surprised that he'd caved so quickly.

 

Perhaps he was tired of cleaning that ax of his.

 

Well, whatever the reason, they would be moving house. Hopefully to somewhere better than this wet hellhole.

 

* * *

 

He really should have expected it. Really, he should have.

 

Everything was going too well for something to not happen to him, so it was no surprise that he was now running as fast as he could, trying to put as much distance between himself and the monster behind him.

 

He'd gone out, partly to get away from camp and partly to check the traps.

 

And then he had found the tracks - and of course he followed it. Of course he did.

 

The thing behind him snorkeled, and he swore he could feel cold slime running down his back.

 

He'd never seen anything like it before.

 

Maybe that was because he wasn't one to wander far from his camp, and, actually, he greatly doubted that he had ever been in this area before.

 

He tripped suddenly, landing hard. 

 

The thing behind him gave out a squealing sound, and he heard it turn and trot off.

 

Now what could have scared it off?

 

The hot breathe against his neck answered that.

 

He looked up slowly, praying it wasn't what he thought.

 

It wasn't.

 

It was worse.

 

The warg huffed, wetting his face, a film forming quickly on his eyebrows.

 

He scrambled upward, just as it snapped forward.

 

Then he turned and bolted.

 

Luckily, wargs were slow, and their hounds tended to stay close to their summoner.

 

Then he slammed into something - something warm, something musty.

 

Oh no.

 

* * *

 

Woodie was chopping wood. Nothing unusual.

 

It was Winter, but he had been somewhat prepared for it.

 

It still invoked a grinding unsettlement, and made Lucy nervous, but he was willing to stay.

 

Wickerbottom, for the most part, stayed in the camp.

 

They had been here for, perhaps, three days.

 

Not long. Not long at all.

 

They had fire. They had thick coats, made right before they had gone through.

 

They were fine.

 

Woodie paused in his rhythmic motions, running his hands together.

 

Lucy hummed a little tune, no doubt picking up on his growing disgust.

 

He hated the cold.

 

Lucy’s tone changed; she heard something, something close.

 

He cocked his head, listening carefully.

 

There was…

 

A hunt, one that was close by.

 

Should he move?

 

But before he could even begin to retreat, a man - a man! he had been surprised at just Wickerbottom, what was another person doing here? - barreled out of the woods.

 

The man's screech was loud, nearly bursting Woodie's ear drums.

 

Then before Woodie could look to see what had frightened the man so, he slammed against Woodie’s chest like a cannon ball.

 

He screamed incoherently, scrambling at Woodie’s jacket.

 

Woodie looked up.

 

Then he picked up the poor lunatic and hoofed it.

 

* * *

 

The red haired man gripped him so hard he felt like his lungs were being squeezed out his rear, and had yanked him up so hard that Wilson was sure that he had left a few bones behind.

 

Currently, the man was - trotting. Quickly.

 

His movements almost lulled Wilson into a sort of calm, but just glancing back toward the pack currently chasing them knocked that right out of him.

 

He continued screaming.

 

The man did not answer, too busy running for both of their lives to tell Wilson to shut it.

 

He hoped his screams attracted someone's - anyone's - attention.

 

Any help would be much appreciated.

 

And then the man stopped, sliding, like he had been pushed to a halt.

 

Wilson screamed again (seemed like that was all he did these days).

 

Turned toward the cliff, for that was what they were stopped at, and screamed, again, louder this time.

 

The man dropped him like a hot potato, pulling out - oh, for hell's sake - a bright, cherry red ax.

 

What was an ax going to do for them? They were being overrun by several dozen hounds and several wargs! They were going to die die die  _ die _ -

 

The man huffed.

 

“Don’ s’ppose ye’ve got any friends?”

 

When Wilson didn't respond, he turned away and carefully spun the ax.

 

“Well, guess tha’ leaves us in a lurch.”

 

* * *

 

The little squirrel-man (Woodie has never seen somebody so small, or so loud) screams, clutching against Woodie’s back with little kitten claws.

 

Woodie rolled his shoulders, looking closer at the wolf creatures before him.

 

The one in front seemed hesitant; perhaps it was confused at the sight of him.

 

It got over that quickly.

 

It lunged.

 

Woodie swung.

 

It went down with a thud, Lucy buried in its skull.

 

He pulled her out easily, the skull caving in like a soft meat bun.

 

The squirrel-man squealed; Woodie ignored him.

 

Lucy was a hefty weapon, but she did her job well.

 

He ducked and twisted, swinging hard.

 

Wolf after wolf. They weren't exactly hard to kill, but with a heavy swing and careful precision, Woodie’s muscle more than made up for it.

 

A yowl interrupted the pair’s work.

 

Woodie looked up the hill, unconcerned.

 

Then he stiffened.

 

He was too shaken by the sight approaching over the horizon to dodge the wolf’s sudden snap.

 

He went down, hard.

 

Beside him, squirrel-man gave a sob, no doubt overcome with fear.

 

The monster was followed by another, and Woodie turned away.

 

He hacked at the wolf attached to his arm, nearly slicing his own hand off in the process.

 

Hopefully the thick jacket material was enough to keep those teeth from tearing open his skin.

 

He pounded at the remaining wolves.

 

He just hoped they could finish with these damned rabid mutts before the damned monsters were upon them.

 

Another yowl, this time closer.

 

But….

 

There was something different.

 

For one thing, most of the surrounding mutts were dead.

 

For another, the yowl he'd just heard was one of pain, not bloodlust.

 

And finally, the squirrel-man was yelling incoherently, a happy sound prying itself from his throat.

  
Looks like the little guy really did have some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is Wolfgang! There's a bit of a time skip.
> 
> I haven't actually written it yet, but hopefully it'll be done soon!


	7. Wolfgang is very nice. Wilson is very unlucky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here's Wolfgang. My sister, who reads all my stuff, was very excited.

Wilson was a wandering buffoon.

 

There was no other explanation. No other logical reason he was here, now, half starved, half frozen, and completely miserable.

 

A large group was a bad idea. Of course it was. Wilson had told them, but did they listen? No. Of course not.

 

Now Wilson was alone, lost, starving, cold, and, most importantly, he was  _ lost _ .

 

Hopelessly lost.

 

He shoved a branch out of the way only to get smacked. That was probably the third time that has happened.

 

He made a very displeased sound. He did not quite know what such a sound was to be called, but it was very displeased.

 

He shook his head, scattering sweat and morning dew this way and that.

 

He had been walking the night through, setting fire to helpless (loathsome) trees as his torch slowly died.

 

Then, when he was sure the sun was just over the horizon, he stole a few moments of sleep.

 

Wilson regretted that choice. His hair was wet, his clothes stuff and clinging uncomfortably to his skin, his throat too dry and his nose clogged with something very unpleasant.

 

He continued walking, trudging through mud and fiercely ignoring his crying gut.

 

“You've already eaten. You had that carrot. Stop complaining.”

 

Maybe talking to his stomache was a bad sign, but it wasn't like he'd shouted it. A little grumbling was fine, he was sure.

 

He growled. Or rather, his stomache did. He wasn't too sure which.

 

He tried not to think how juvenile he was acting nor how lost he was.

 

Instead he kept a sharp eye out for any fruit, any scraps left behind by wildlife.

 

Wilson did not regret meeting more people. But he did regret accepting Wendy's proposition.

 

Too many people! Oh, why, why did he think it was smart to allow a twelve year old to make major decisions such as that?

 

Well, at least the two were behaved, unlike  _ some  _ people.

 

Wickerbottom was a kind and warm soul, quick and witty. Woodie was an excellent worker, willing to put in the effort.

 

Willow, of course, let him hang out to dry under their attention.

 

At least he knew they were all safe.

 

He was tugged from his thoughts again when yet another branch hit him square in the face.

 

He hated spring. He hated winter. He hated summer. He hated fall.

 

He hated this island!

 

He stamped his feet, as if to hit reality back.

 

He lost his fire quickly, however, and slumped, sighing, against the very tree that had slapped him.

 

Wilson let himself breathe for a moment.

 

He had no food. He had no shelter. He had no clue where he was, nor where anyone else was.

 

At least he knew they'd be fine without him. His machines were mostly undamaged, and he seemed to do little else except build useless contraptions.

 

Well… it appeared that this was it.

 

Four years, going on five.

 

Quite a long time… he was proud.

 

But it was not to be.

 

For a while, he'd actually been getting excited.

 

People - real people - were not things he had ever expected to see.

 

Now. Now he was going to lose all his time, all his efforts, and everything he had seen and met and grasped.

 

His brows furrowed, and new energy surged through him.

 

No. No!

 

This would not do at all!

 

Wilson had done many hard things as of late. He would not be rolling over just yet.

 

He could at least get up, could at least trudge onward.

 

To give up now was a waste.

 

If he died as he walked, he could at least say he'd tried.

 

So Wilson rose to his feet, wrapped a quick torch from his remaining supplies, and trudged onwards.

* * *

 

Wilson got lucky.

 

Food was just around the bend.

 

He ate his fill quickly, reluctant to be caught by some scavenging beast.

 

Now he wandered onward, the sun swallowing the air around his slight shoulders.

 

Night was soon to fall.

 

It would not catch him unaware; he promised himself that. He had a torch in hand and determination, if a bit dim, on his side.

 

But in the distance….

 

Was that what he thought it was?

 

He hoped it wasn't. He prayed to gods and demons, both he knew did not exist and would not listen even if they did, that it wasn't what he thought it was.

 

But Wilson was an unlucky lost man.

 

People like that often get what they think they'll get.

* * *

 

Barking, howling, just behind him.

 

He gasped for air, and continued running.

 

Leaves slapping, Wilson's face scratched to pieces.

 

Adrenaline soaked up the pain, but made him shaky in return.

 

He couldn't go on for much longer. He had dropped the torch far behind him.

 

Well… this was it.

 

He said he'd try. Well, he did. He'd tried!

 

Now his dilemma was how he'd die.

 

Should he die by fierce and harsh teeth, tearing into his marrow and muscle?

 

Or would he rather be torn inside out by the night creature?

 

His shoulders shook.

 

Neither. None!

 

He did not  _ want  _ to die!

 

He just wanted some peace and quiet, that's all! Some way to busy himself, some people to speak to!

 

And to think, he had had all that in his grasp! And now - now, it was all gone!

 

All due to his ineptitude, to his own cowardly nature!

 

Wilson fell, gasping for dry breath, onto his knees.

 

This was it.

 

He dragged his pathetic body to a nearby tree, rested his back against its rough bark.

 

He could hear the whistling whispers of the dark, could hear the pants and slobbering bloodlust of the hounds.

 

He curled into the fetal position.

 

No, he was not crying, no, he was not shaking (well, so what if he was? You would be too!).

 

He was protecting his head, was all.

 

A crashing sound.

 

They were coming closer. 

 

(Oh gods oh gods oh gods he'd forgotten the pain, forgotten how  _ dreadful _ dieing was)

 

The howls became yowls.

 

A - a yelp?

 

Of pain?

 

Why would such beasts be making such noises right before the feast?

 

Wilson did not want to hope.

 

No. He could not. He could not bear being wrong.

 

There was a gruff voice.

 

Nope. That was just his mind going sideways, like it usually did.

 

He refused to look up, to face his death head on.

 

(Oh, the coward's path, right? How deplorable.)

 

No.

 

Fingers grasped his sides - Oh science, those were some big hands.

 

They wrapped neatly around his waist, picking him up with ease.

 

Well now.

 

He was pretty sure this being was real.

 

But now, instead of being frozen in some deluded denial, he was frozen in… shame.

 

How quaint.

 

He remained locked in his curled position.

 

The voice was too low to hear, with his hands covering his ears, but he was sure it was giving assurance.

 

At least he wasn't going to die in the jaws of beasts. The worst this being could do would be to eat him, but from their voice alone he doubted they'd do it with him awake.

 

* * *

 

Wilson awoke calmly, warm and comfortable.

 

It was quiet except for crackle of the fire, light flickering slowly against his eyelids.

 

The last thing he could recall….

 

A… a sick sheep?

 

Really?

 

He'd gone running into wilderness, into the unknown, because he'd been terrified of a sheep.

 

He felt like laughing - no, he felt like crying.

 

And now….

 

Now, he was at the campsite of yet another stranger. Where did these people keep coming from?

 

A rustle broke his musing.

 

A body - big, heavy - placed itself beside him.

 

If they had been there the entire time they gave no indication.

 

Wilson, caught in indecision, did not open his eyes.

 

This went on for some time; the being, busy with something in their hands, and Wilson, stiff and unyielding.

 

Finally, the stranger seemed to have enough of the tense atmosphere.

 

“Little man shaken?”

 

Wilson carefully shook his head, keeping his eyes closed.

 

“You in bad spot. I got little man out.”

 

Wilson opened his eyes. At this point he couldn't resist his own curiosity, and besides, it was common courtesy.

 

The man before him towered.

 

“Little man good? Better?”

 

The stranger did whatever immense buildings did in their spare time. Which was tower.

 

Wilson nodded, too stunned to respond with anything else.

 

The man smiled.

 

“Good.”

 

He turned back to whatever he had been doing while Wilson had been ignoring him, which was carefully roasting a carrot.

 

“Tall man offer good job. Said bad english no problem, offer good pay. I said good. Now here.” The man held up three solid, calloused fingers.

 

“Three days. You?”

 

Wilson gulped, and decided answering was better than keeping silent. No matter how much he wanted to pretend to be a mute, knowing his luck he'd slip up and be beaten to death. The man had the muscle to do it.

 

“Oh, um, I, uh, I have been here…. For….”

 

Wait - how long had he been here again?

 

The man seemed to sense his increasing confusion.

 

“No problem, little man. I lose count as well.”

 

His hands were even heavier than Wilson had thought. As politely as he could, he shoved the ‘comforting’ arm off his shoulders.

 

“I am Wolfgang. You?”

 

“Wilson Percival Higgsbury. Scientist.”

 

“Ah,  _ smart _ little man. Very good.”

 

The man slid a contemplating glance Wilson's way.

 

“Help Wolfgang? Together we are strong.”

 

He pounded a large fist against his massive chest, as if to emphasize his words.

 

Wilson gave some thought to this.

 

Staying here would keep him safe, would keep him fed - perhaps, after he had settled some, he could find the others.

 

But leaving was tempting. 

 

Wolfgang cut an intimidating figure, and Wilson had had more than enough of people. As fulfilling conservation was, Wilson disliked being crowded.

 

“Staying is good. Yes, I think I'll keep you company, at least for the time being.”

  
Wolfgang’s face split, teeth broad and grin so bright Wilson was a little surprised he wasn't blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very tired right now. And a bit disappointed.
> 
> I wanted to write two chaps this week and post the official timeline, but I found that the next chap, with Webber, is really really difficult, and the timeline had a lot more math than I originally thought.
> 
> See, I've got some real interesting time distortion and displacement in store, but it's really really difficult. And I just havent put in enough time this week to post it yet.
> 
> Fortunately, I've made it up with four side ficlets, which are all under 100 words each.


	8. A sick spider and Wilson's thick skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Webber and stuff. I can't really think of what else to say...

Wolfgang was foraging.

 

The little man was a strange little thing; when Wolfgang had been on his lonesome, he'd only collect food when he began running low. 

 

The  _ smart _ little man insisted on at least one person always out foraging, and so, while Wilson tinkered and fiddled with his knick-knacks, Wolfgang kept starvation at bay.

 

He pulled carrots, picked berries, gathered plenty of wood and kindling, busy and distracted.

 

That was why he didn't hear the hissing until he was practically on top of the source.

 

He was shoved away by weak limbs, too weak to actually shift him off the form but capable of getting his attention.

 

Surprised, he pulled the cover away. Perhaps it was an injured meal? Meat and morsel to cook for the two survivors?

 

It hissed, louder now, and Wolfgang -

 

Spider!

 

There was a spider!

 

And. It. Was. BIG.

 

Wolfgang shrieked.

 

Spiders were horrible things - crawling, creeping, always approaching his camp one by one, only combated by their fear of fire.

 

But he didn't doubt that, if they were starving, they would overrun his camp with little effort.

 

This one was as big as a warrior, but it didn't have its signature yellow stripes -

 

It suddenly coughed.

 

Wolfgang, caught by a sudden suspicion, looked closer.

 

It was….

 

It was sick?

 

Its body rocked, shivering with what was probably a fever.

 

It snuffled.

 

It had stopped hissing, and instead appeared to be…. Crying?

 

A twinge, in Wolfgang’s old heart.

 

He gently scooped the small - compared to him it was small, but compared to the already big spiders it was enormous - spider into his immense arms.

 

It stiffened, then seemed to give into a wave of feverish apathy and relaxed.

 

Perhaps it was too sick to struggle? Wolfgang was glad for it.

 

Maybe it had been evicted from its silk nest? To avoid sickness infecting its friends, no doubt.

 

Wolfgang didn't care for spider meat, and if he ate this one he might get sick himself.

 

But he doubted it had some strange illness that could cross between humans and spiders with just contact.

 

With this decided, he bundled up the supplies he had collected and shifted the spider into a comfortable position.

* * *

 

Wilson muttered to himself, mind busy with who knew what.

 

Wolfgang was relying on that.

 

He could sneak the small thing into his sleeping bag, feed it and water it while Wilson kept to his business, not suspecting a thing.

 

It was the perfect plan! The spider could even become like a guard dog if Wolfgang did this right....

 

And then it sneezed.

 

Wilson jumped, shuttered, and froze.

 

Wolfgang covered the spider as well as he could.

 

Perhaps the little man hadn't seen it yet?

 

“Wolfgang. What are you holding.”

 

Nope. He'd seen.

 

“I am going to turn around, and when I do you'd better show me whatever you're hiding.”

 

With no other choice, Wolfgang released his tight grip on the sickly thing, holding it tentatively out like a formal invitation to the scientist.

 

And Wilson's face just - 

 

The only words Wolfgang could possibly use were “twisted” and “boiled.”

 

“What aRE YOU DOING WITH A - A -”

 

He hacked, dry throat breaking -

 

“A SCIENCE FORSAKEN SPIDER??!”

 

Wilson shuddered, and he darted over to one of the chests.

 

“What in nine hells has possessed you???”

 

Wolfgang ignored the little man's outrage, suddenly beset by a revelation.

 

The thing in his arms was….

 

Wilson grabbed it, pulling the shaking thing straight from Wolfgang's lax grip.

 

Suddenly it was screaming, and Wilson was screaming, and Wolfgang -

 

“Enough!”

 

He snatched the - the - the _child_ from the _smart_ man's threatening hold.

 

“Little man --”

 

“My name is  _ Wilson - _ -”

 

“--- Little man, this is no spider!”

 

The scientist gave him the most sceptical look Wolfgang had ever received.

 

But the spider - the  _ child - _ gave him the happiest sound Wolfgang had ever heard since coming to this place.

 

“Now, Wolfgang, I know it's sick, but this is just ridiculous. Give it to me.”

 

His brows furrowed, and he thrust out demanding hands.

 

Wolfgang shook his head.

 

Wilson's jaw spasmed.

 

“Now, Wolfgang…”

 

He shook his head.

 

“No. Is child.”

 

Wilson's face seemed to just get progressively more cartoonish with each word Wolfgang spoke.

 

As if to back him up, the child mewled.

 

Wilson glared.

 

Wolfgang glared back.

 

Finally, the little man sighed.

 

“Well, it's two against one.”

 

He looked down, then back up into Wolfgang's unyielding expression.

 

“But if  _ anything _ bad happens, it's your fault. Understand?”

* * *

 

And now Wilson was alone.

 

With the little nipper.

 

They'd had the thing for several days now, several long, long days.

 

Wilson couldn't focus on his work with the cooes of triumph Wolfgang made every time he convinced the “child” to eat.

 

Not only that, but Wolfgang refused to leave the camp to forage until the spider was eating on its own.

 

Wilson had to go out, everyday, brave running into hounds and tree guards, get covered in dirt, and forget all his science plans.

 

What a waste.

 

But now, Wolfgang had deemed the thing healthy enough to be left without his supervision. Meaning, Wolfgang was willing to leave camp.

 

Wilson was about ready to rejoice, because the spider could just sneak off, couldn't it, it wouldn't be Wilson's fault, now would it?

 

But Wolfgang seemed to have read his mind.

 

“You, little man, watch child. If I come back to find them gone….”

 

He left the consequences open to interpretation.

 

Well, it wasn't like Wilson really would have gone through with it.

 

But as a result, Wilson was sitting here.

 

Staring at it.

 

It stared back at him with white eyes, filmy with what Wilson could only assume were cataracts.

 

Its breath rattled in its chest.

 

Wilson tried to ignore its illness, he really did.

 

But when one is a scientist, with quite the fascination with biology and chemistry (although he couldn't say he was  _ good  _ at them), one noticed just how badly another being was doing.

 

And rightly so; this way, no one got hurt and the drama would die down.

 

Wolfgang’s little pet would pass in the night, Wolfgang would cry then forget about the nipper, and then Wilson would be able to focus on his work.

 

Perhaps he'd even have time to find the others.

 

The thing coughed.

 

A croak issued forth, and now - 

 

Oh no.

 

Was he really - was he really going to go down this road?

 

Was he honestly  _ pitying  _ it?

 

He sucked in a breath, then twisted around in his seat, desperate to ignore it.

 

A warble.

 

Was it….

 

Was it trying to speak?

 

“H-he-ey….”

 

It was!

 

“Why…. d-do you….”

 

Wilson had to force himself to not lean in; the little thing could barely whisper its words.

 

“H-hate…. me?”

 

Wait.

 

If it was speaking….

 

It wasn't a spider.

 

Wilson nearly cracked his spine, turning to face the - what had Wolfgang called it? - the - oh dear science - the child.

 

Its eyes were streaming, its coat thick with sweat.

 

Was it even an “it”?

 

It swallowed, seeming to cower - whether in pain or in embarrassment was questionable.

 

Wilson had to respond.

 

“I don't.… hate you, per say.”

 

That was what one was supposed to say to sick children, especially a sad one, right?

 

Wilson really didn't hate it. He just…. didn’t like spiders.

 

It sighed.

 

“But…. You're …. so mean to Mr. Wolfgang….”

 

It seemed to be regaining a bit of its strength, only breathless and whispering instead of barely choking out the words.

 

“Well, to tell you the truth, until just now I thought you were a spider.”

 

Wilson looked up, suddenly nervous.

 

“And I…. I wasn't very happy to see Wolfgang bringing a spider into camp.”

 

The child hacked again.

 

“‘M Webber.”

 

There was an aborted attempt at a handshake, but it dropped its hand when it saw that Wilson had not moved an inch.

 

“I am Wilson P. Higgsbury.”

 

Webber nodded, then buried its head in its blankets.

 

Wilson sat there, too unsettled to move from his spot.

 

There was a…. a spider-child.

 

In his camp.

 

He rose, a feverish wave passing over him.

 

This…. being was going to die. Wolfgang clearly had little experience nursing someone to health, and while Wilson could not claim otherwise for himself, a little assistance went a long way.

* * *

 

The next few days were a confusing muddle of activity.

 

When Wolfgang came back from his little trip, Wilson did not spare any time for dinner or any other luxuries.

 

He immediately set to briefing the man, outlining a health plan for Webber.

 

The plan was to have Wolfgang forage for supplies most days, rotating only when Wilson was tired enough.

 

Webber, who Wilson was learning was quite the sweet child, did not protest the change in caretakers.

 

Wilson devoted his scarce time to carefully noting the differences between himself and the spider-child, and making alterations to the health plan.

 

Webber’s health slowly improved.

 

And Wilson….

 

Wilson was curious.

 

How did a child come to be here, of all places?

 

The other survivors tended to be too private or seemed too ignorant to answer his questions.

 

Willow had just brushed him off, as had Wickerbottom, Woodie, and Wolfgang.

 

Wendy had just started at him with dead eyes.

 

But Webber….

 

He was getting to know the boy - at least, Wilson  _ thought  _ it was a boy - and the child was quite the character.

 

Even delirious with fever, the child had been innocent and soft-hearted, and being out of the worst of it did not seem to have changed that.

 

Wilson was sure he'd have his questions answered.

 

“Oh, you want to know about the tall man?”

 

Confusion. What had he expected, he was talking about a  _ child _ for science's sake.

 

“Webber, don't goof around. How did you get here?”

 

“I just told you! The talk man promised…. He promised….”

 

Webber hiccupped. Wilson's heart stopped.

 

Jumping up, he lunged, tugging the boy by the shoulders, looking directly into his eyes.

 

“Wait - What did this man look like?! What did he promise you?! Tell me --!”

 

“Little man does not hold to promises, does he?”

 

A hand grabbed the back of his shirt, lifting him off the bewildered child.

 

“Spider-child, what was he doing?”

 

Webber blinked, his eyes in synch.

 

“N-no, Mr. Wolfgang, Mr. Higgsbury wasn't doing anything! I just…. I was telling him about the tall man!”

 

Wolfgang gave the boy a sceptical look.

 

“Little man is nosy. Shouldn't encourage him.”

 

Wilson squeaked. He wasn't nosy - just curious!

 

Webber shook his head frantically.

 

“It's ok, Mr. Wolfgang! Please put him down!”

 

Wolfgang huffed, but assented.

 

Wilson brushed himself off, turning his nose up at the man before turning his attention back to Webber.

 

“Now, I know I came off a bit…. er…. Strongly, but if you can tell me, I'll be most grateful.”

 

“Sure, sure, it's fine, Mr. Higgsbury! The man promised me that if meet all the new friends I could ever want --”

 

Webber faltered, emotion cluttering his clouded eyes.

 

“He was a liar.”

 

Wilson nodded vigorously.

 

“Yes, yes he is! Now, can you tell me what he looked like - just to confirm my suspicions, of course.”

 

But Webber seemed to have lost his surprised compliance; instead of answering any of Wilson's questions, he tucked his head up against Wolfgang’s belly.

 

Well, that was the end of that.

 

Wolfgang grew ever more protective over Webber, but Wilson didn't try to pry again.

  
He'd gotten his answer already; now he only needed to figure out what to do with it….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took three times to write correctly. I am very happy with it. Two things before I go, though; one) I'm very lazy and i am so sorry. But I just don't want to spend time going back and changing every time I said time I said "summer rain," to "spring rain,"  
> Two) would you guys like a timeline? I have a very specific headcannon for the dont starve timeline, and it might be confusing.  
> But yknow, you don't really need to know it to read this. I just think its fun and interesting. I'll post it at the end of next chap regardless, but hey. If you don't want it speak up!
> 
> (Blagh. Bit scatterbrained right now. Whatever.)

**Author's Note:**

> I've got five more chapters and a spin off series. My main goal with this is to make each chapter at least 1000 words. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Next up is Willow!


End file.
